


Human Error

by doctormchotson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Slash Goggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 01:45:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1327201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctormchotson/pseuds/doctormchotson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, on one of the rare nights at 221B rather than home with Mary, was awakened by some of the most hauntingly beautiful music he'd ever heard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Human Error

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired in part by a scene from the heartbreaking film "Mr. Pip"

John, on one of the rare nights spent at 221B rather than home with Mary, was awakened by some of the most hauntingly beautiful music he'd ever heard. If you could give sound to the way his heart had shattered when Sherlock's body hit the pavement all those years ago, it might sound something like the way the violin was sobbing quietly into the night. He'd been woken by music many a time while living at Baker Street, but it had never sounded anything like this.

He attempted to make his way downstairs as noiselessly as he could but he'd never once been able to sneak up on Sherlock. Even with the rain thrashing the windows and the roof as if to tear it down, that great mop of curls still tilted toward him in acknowledgment the minute he set foot in the sitting room. 

The light from the street lamps, reflected through a thousand raindrop prisms, flowed across Sherlock as his body contorted himself through what, by the aching music, could only be grief. When the song finally, gently came to a close, he held himself for a moment, back bowed, breathing deep and deliberate. He straightened slowly, so slowly, as though sudden movement might shatter him, and let gravity delicately take his bow from the strings.

Long minutes passed with the raging storm the only sound in the flat before Sherlock began to speak. 

"About 9 months into my...time away, I found myself on a small island in the South Pacific. It's a tedious story, how it all connected to Moriarty's network, but there I was. On the island there was a young woman. You would have thought she was beautiful."

Sherlock smiled, a soft faraway thing, and stared unseeing through the windows.

"She took to me, for whatever reason. Liked to show me around the place. One day she decided she simply must take me to a lookout point."

He straightened slightly, and his face set, just a bit, and suddenly John knew what was coming.

"The trail, such as it was, went along a cliff edge. She must've walked that way hundreds of times in her life, but this time she didn't make it. She was laughing, and then she fell, and then she was dead."

John knew anyone else listening would have thought him cold in that moment, by the bluntness of his speech and the way his voice didn't even quiver. But John knew Sherlock Holmes better than Sherlock Holmes knew anything, and so he saw the tightness in his eyes, the deliberate nature of his stillness, heard the uncharacteristic pause in his narrative. He would have reached out to touch him if he thought it would do any good.

"The locals, her tribe, buried her in the trunk of a tree in a hole in the earth. They showered her with the most brightly colored flowers they could find and they wailed. The rain came down in a torrent that day. I didn't think I'd ever be dry again."

Sherlock lifted his hand, still holding the bow with thumb and index finger, and gently traced his fingers down the window pane, following the paths taken by the rain. He swallowed, hard, and blinked rapidly twice.

"They told me she'd meant to ask me to marry her."

He quirked a small, heartbroken grin and whispered, "Human error," the slightest lift on the last syllable making it almost like a question.

Nothing in the world could have stopped John from touching him then. He took the two measured strides necessary to bring him to Sherlock's side and reached a hand up to gently cup the back of Sherlock's neck. Maybe it was the time of night, or the reminder of The Fall, or the mood wrapped around the pair of them by the music and the confession and the rain. Whatever the reason, he allowed his blunt fingers to swirl gently through the hair at the nape of Sherlock's neck, and his lips to press a kiss to his shoulder.

Come morning Mary would be waiting, and a waterlogged London would have need of her Consulting Detective. But for now, John left his hand where it was, and the two men leaned against one another, watching the storm.


End file.
